The Princess and the Dictator
by Lisa Von Cooper
Summary: "Every time something good happens to me - every time - Timmy RUINS IT! Well, I'm not going to let him ruin anything else!" A story of friendship, tragedy and revenge, set in the bad future of "Channel Chasers" and explaining why Vicky was so eager to get her hands on the time travel belt. Rated T for torture.


**Author's Note: One day, I wondered what Trixie was doing during "Channel Chasers" and what role she might have played in the bad future. Then this idea came to me (partially inspired by "Frenemy Mine"), and despite its somewhat ridiculous premise, I couldn't let it go. So here it is! Just to warn you, it's rated T for torture. Enjoy!**

 **The Princess and the Dictator**

Vicky paces the length of the war room, her gloved hand running along the map sketched onto the wall, tracing her past conquests. North America fell first. Then South America. Africa, Europe and Asia quickly followed. Oceania was more of a challenge, but she wore those people down. She wears everyone down. Now the entirety of Planet Earth is under her command.

Not bad for a thirty-six-year-old.

She halts before a wall covered with artwork. It's a menagerie of photographs, paintings, collages and even a mosaic or two. In every single one, Vicky is there, standing to attention with her loyal supporters, pinching a toddler's cheek, pointing the way forward for her planet. The propaganda machine has been busy recently.

One gold frame stands out from the rest. It's the only portrait that doesn't depict the great and benevolent Vicky Valentine. Instead, it captures another woman, a woman wearing a turquoise dress fit for a princess, a woman with a lipstick-smothered mouth smiling for the camera.

Trixie Tang.

The most beautiful woman in the world.

…

Vicky remembers their first meeting like it was yesterday. It was on a dark and stormy night roughly ten years ago. A troop of tanks trundled towards the Tang mansion; the commander hopped out of the machine nearest the front and jabbed a finger at the intercom.

 _BUZZ._

"Who is this?" a slightly groggy feminine voice replied.

"Hi, this is the Supreme Ruler of the Earth. We believe your father has been funding the Resistance, so would you mind coming out and answering a few questions?"

"Uh…" The line crackled. "It's the middle of the night. And it's also pretty wet outside. Why don't you come to us? Later, I mean?"

That was the wrong thing to say.

"We'll see." Vicky returned to her tank. "FOLLOW ME!" she bellowed.

The iron gate was blasted to smithereens. Tyre tracks muddied the manicured lawn, and the invasion crunched an elaborate fountain beneath it. Upon reaching the huge building, a series of well-calculated missile shots completely destroyed the front walls, opening the place up like a doll's house. A flood of rainwater intruded on the scene and soaked the luxurious carpets.

"Did you have to decimate our house?" a flustered twentysomething shrieked, sprinting down the grand staircase, baby-blue nightgown flying.

"We don't take chances with the disobedient," Vicky snarled, clambering out the tank and striding to meet her halfway. "You're just lucky you weren't crushed by the-"

"LOOK OUT!"

The leader was knocked to the floor.

It took a few seconds to get some air back into her lungs and register what had happened. A lump of ceiling crashed to the ground just inches from her feet. Trixie was lying on top of her.

"Get off me, you traitor!" Vicky shoved her aside. "Guards! Send her to the dungeon! And send _him_ to the place of execution." She pointed to the bewildered bespectacled man at the top of the steps.

"You can't do this to us! You're a monster!" Trixie shouted as she was pulled to her feet and towards an idling grey van. "You could be a little more grateful, you know. I didn't have to save your life, but I did. Doesn't that count for something? Doesn't that count for anything?"

The protester was soon joined by her father. The door slammed and the van drove away.

One of the soldiers started clapping. "There goes the Resistance's fuel. What spark of revolution shall we stamp out next, eh, boss?" He elbowed her playfully. Vicky didn't respond to his comment. "Boss?" He paused.

"She _did_ save my life," the general mumbled to herself. "I – don't understand. What's – happening to me?" She was shaking violently. "Strange – feeling – in – my – chest!"

Standing in the pouring rain, something inside her was swelling, something that had once laid dormant and useless.

Her heart.

…

Rolling over on her wooden bench, Trixie awoke the next morning to find a grinning creature inches from her face.

"GAH!"

Vicky didn't even flinch. "Good morning, NFT!" she simpered. "That's 'New Friend Trixie'! After you stopped me getting hit in the head by rubble, I had this weird feeling in the place where I think my heart is, so I made you breakfast!" She presented a plate laden with bacon and eggs. "Now hurry up and eat – you don't want to miss the prison's visiting hours, do you?"

"What?"

"Oh, yeah, haven't you heard?" Vicky stood up and waved a hand at the open door. "I changed my mind. Your father's not going to die after all. He'll just be imprisoned for life. You can see him if you want. And after that, I'm letting you go."

"But I don't have a home to go to. No thanks to you." The captive studied the black-and-white stripes of her most unflattering jumpsuit.

"That's no problem. You'll be living with me!"

Trixie's head snapped up. Her eyebrows were knitted together, searching Vicky's hopeful beaming face for any hint of deception. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Because we're friends, silly!" Vicky locked the girl in a tight embrace, nearly knocking the heavy plate to the floor. "And friends help each other out when they need it. That's what you taught me."

"Wait a minute." Trixie wormed her way out of the hug. "Look, I appreciate what you're doing for me, Your Majesty, but-" She laughed nervously. "I don't understand. When I said you should be nicer, I didn't mean just to me."

"Trixie, you're the only person in this world worth being nice to."

Thanks to her deadly serious tone and the glint of desperation in her eyes, Trixie would have had no choice but to believe her.

…

The dictator smiles to herself as she recalls their many conversations. _The course of true friendship never did run smooth._

She takes the picture down. She traces the path of her NFT's long jet-black locks as they fall over her shoulders. That photographer – Veronica was her name – definitely knew how to make her subjects look as stunning as possible. It's a shame that Vicky had to purge her.

She glances over her shoulder, checking for anyone who might come barging in. Then she closes her eyes and kisses the mouth of Trixie's picture. The glass is cool against her lips.

She pulls back and scrutinises the smudge left behind. She frowns and wipes it off. She's losing her marbles. Kissing pictures? What kind of person does that?

The kind of person who's lost a precious treasure.

Vicky knows she can't wait for much longer. She smacks the square transceiver mounted to the wall and jolts it into life, twisting the knobs until she finds the right channel. "Tootie? Come in, Tootie."

The scowling face of a raven-haired lady in thick purple glasses fills the screen. "What is it now?"

"Tootie, how long is this going to take?"

"Relax, sis. We're just attaching the electrodes now." She holds up some thin red wires to prove it.

" _Finally._ "

"Hey, don't take that tone with me. Questioning suspects is a serious business. We have to do things properly."

"I know, I know. Just tell me when you're done. And try not to kill him this time. He's our only lead."

"Will do, and won't do. Over and out."

The screen descends into grey static.

Vicky nods in approval, even though Tootie isn't watching anymore. Considering that girl was once just the bratty little sister, she's become the best Chief of the Secret Police any dictator could ask for. She's very efficient when it comes to dispensing with troublesome people. Almost too efficient.

Before then, she'd made some outstanding contributions to the Tech Department. Like the brilliant hoverboards. And the heavy-duty gloves that shot lasers all over the place.

And the Superkill Serum…

Vicky blinks as her eyes moisten. _No,_ she tells herself. _Keep it together. A Supreme Ruler never cries._

She can't help it, though. She'll never see her rescuer in the flesh again, no matter how much she misses her face. She'll never hear her saviour speak again, no matter how much she misses her voice. All she has left of her NFT are fragments stolen from photographs and videos, pale imitations of the real thing.

An emotion that was previously an alien concept – sadness – tightens around her lungs.

…

She's there again. Yesterday. The closing ceremony of the Olympics. The day when everything changed.

Vicky and Trixie take centre stage, one in her full khaki military garb (complete with the gold medals she won in every event this year), the other laden with pearls and modelling a sleek purple dress that shows off her hourglass figure. The unforgiving Sun beats down on the two women; luckily, there are guards on either side of the couple wielding giant fans. The stench of sweat and cola fills the air. The international anthem, originally composed by the lyrical genius (and hunk) Chip Skylark, rings out across the stadium.

 _Hey, Vicky, won't you tell us true:_

 _How'd we ever get the good luck to be blessed with you?_

 _Oh, Vicky, can we say one thing?_

 _It's your super-caring leadership_

 _That makes us wanna sing!_

Vicky taps her feet in time with the beat. Beside her, Trixie sings along, harmonising, her voice trilling like a songbird. _Man, I love this song._

The tune moves into the outro.

 _Not-So-Icky Vicky! (Woo-hoo!)_

 _Not-So-Icky Vicky! (Woo-hoo!)_

 _Not-So-Icky Vicky!_

The anthem fades away. Everyone in the audience sits down. The inferior athletes have gathered on the oval track. Vicky and Trixie remain standing. There's a pregnant pause between activities, between the anthem and the speech.

Then it happens.

The dart.

The neck.

The scream.

The _scream_.

The SCREAM.

The fall.

"NO!"

Vicky can't see her anymore. There are too many people in the way. _Get lost!_ Just as she thinks this, they step back. She clocks the dart embedded in Trixie's neck, her graceful swanlike neck. She retches and turns her head away. She notices Tootie standing there. "Do something," she orders.

Her sister bites her lip. "I'm afraid there's nothing we can do."

"What are you talking about? There's plenty we can do!" She grabs the lapels of Tootie's coat. "Get her to the hospital! Do CPR! Get that THING out of her neck!"

" _No_ , Vicky." The rant is briefly halted by the stern emphasis in Tootie's words. "That dart – I don't understand how, but it's got our Superkill Serum in it."

The world stops turning.

Tootie moves to the microphone and declares, "Nobody is leaving this stadium!" Soon her orders fade away, along with the yells of the crowd, the cola stench, the Sun's heat, everyone, everything.

Vicky stares at the paling princess lying at her feet. She doesn't know how anyone could get their hands on her Superkill Serum. Right now, she doesn't care. All she has the capacity to do is fall to her knees and weep.

And the crowd can only watch as their Supreme Ruler cradles the corpse of her one true friend and loses control of her emotions.

…

"Your Majesty?"

Vicky is jolted from her flashback. Her scrabbling hands fix the picture to the wall again. She spins to face the TV. "What?" she barks at the screen, hoping she's disguising the fact that her voice is thick with longing.

"He's ready for you in the torture chamber," says Tootie.

"Excellent." Vicky's smile is thin.

Perhaps she'll finally have some answers.

…

Or perhaps she won't.

" _Talk,_ " she repeats.

"No," the Indian man instantly replies.

Vicky, sitting opposite him, closes her eyes and massages her temples. "You're not helping anybody by staying silent."

Sanjay just sits there with a perfectly straight back, proudly keeping schtum, pretending he's _not_ in a gloomy stony chamber, pretending his hands _aren't_ tied behind his back, pretending there _aren't_ any wires clipped to his nipples.

"Perhaps all you need is a little … motivation." Vicky winks at her sister.

Tootie, perched at a desk to the side, flicks a switch on the navy box. The shock racks the suspect's body. It lasts about a second, and then he puts his head between his knees, gasping.

"Believe me, there's more where that came from," the commander tells him. "So you'd better answer me. Why did you kill Trixie Tang?"

Sanjay rises. "No comment."

"Was she even your target?"

"No comment."

"Were you aiming at me?"

"No comment."

For those three terse replies, he receives three blasts of pain from the machine in quick succession. Vicky licks her lips, watching him squirm.

"Are you still so sure you're clueless?"

"A-a-absolutely," the victim stutters. "I'm clueless about everything. The murder, the Resistance, the time travel belt, everything."

"What was that last thing?" Vicky pounces.

Sanjay blinks, and then his eyes widen in realisation. "Uh … the Resistance?"

"No, after that. Some sort of belt?"

She smirks. The poor boy slumps in his seat. He's blown it.

"So you have a time travel belt, do you?" Vicky nods. "It all makes sense now. Kill me to stop me interfering with things, and then put on the belt to go back and make sure my magnificent rule never comes to pass. That's some clever thinking, Sanjay."

"There's just one little flaw in your theory." The fighter curls his lip. "Your rule is anything but magnificent."

"Ooh, you're going to get it for that," Vicky hisses.

And he does. He really does.

When it ceases, he bends over, gasping. His glasses clatter to the cold stone floor. He's weakening. She can see it in his posture, hear it in the sobs he's desperately choking back. He can't hold out for much longer, surely?

"This is all so intriguing," Vicky continues. "A plot to change the world from the inside out. But there are so many unanswered questions." She leans forward. "How did you get together the materials for a time travel belt? Come to think of it, how did you get your hands on the Superkill Serum?"

There's a certain type of look exchanged by Sanjay and Tootie. Vicky catches it. Her heart sinks. _Not her. Not her._ But it must be. She was just too blind to spot it.

She stands and approaches the former scientist. "Have you done it? Have you joined their side?" She waits. There is no response. "Have you betrayed me, twerpette?" she spits. There's a word she hasn't used for years.

Tootie gulps.

"She has nothing to do with us," Sanjay insists. "Leave her alone."

"Why are you defending her?"

"Because she hasn't done anything." He takes a deep breath. "But I have." He hangs his head. "I killed her."

"Excuse me?"

"I killed her," he repeats. "I killed Trixie Tang. There, I said it. Go ahead. Go ahead and punish me."

Vicky sits back down and squints at his face. "You're lying."

"I'm not." A bead of sweat trickles down his forehead.

"You are. I can tell." She strokes her chin. "I don't think you did it. I think you're covering someone else's butt. Because you care about them. Well, aren't you a sweetie pie?"

She detects a faint blush on his caramel skin. "You'll never get his name out of me!"

" _His_ name?"

Sanjay kicks himself. "Man, I suck at this!"

Vicky grabs his shoulders. "Listen to me, sir. I'm going to count to three, and when I finish, I want you to tell me who _really_ killed Trixie Tang. Do you understand?"

"I do," the tortured soul whispers.

Vicky stands and approaches the giant red lever on the wall. Tootie is soon by her side, resting her hand on the deadly device.

"One."

Vicky fixes her steely glare on Sanjay.

"Two."

Tootie drums her fingers on the handle.

"Three."

He's shaking. He's terrified. But he's still not going to do it. As far as he's concerned, he's going to stay strong and die a hero.

Tootie pulls the lever down.

"It was Timmy-"

That's all Sanjay can blurt out before his body explodes into a series of spasms.

Tootie yanks the lever back up again. It's too late. The damage has been done. He goes limp in the chair, practically folding in half. She sprints over and checks his neck and wrists for a pulse; finding nothing, she sighs. "Me and my trigger finger."

"It's okay. I've heard enough."

Tootie guffaws. "Oh, come on, sis, a first name is not enough! There must be millions of Timmys across the globe."

"But only one who best knows how to make my life a misery."

She turns back. Vicky's pink eyes are icy-cold. Tootie is frozen to the spot, unable to move or speak.

"Every time something good happens to me – _every time_ – Timmy RUINS IT!" Vicky blasts. "Well, I'm not going to let him ruin anything else!"

The chill is gone, replaced by a restless fire, the urge to seek her revenge.

…

The general surveys the training ground from her tall grey post. The ground is dusty and brown. Black towers assault the skyline. Giant red banners, emblazoned with the white letter V in a black circle, provide the only colour in this bleak landscape.

There are bags under her eyes, but frankly she has more important problems to care about.

Roughly two hundred guards assemble beneath her, in ten rows of twenty. All are covered from head to toe in black cloth. All have red eyes glowing beneath their hoods. All have bulging rock-hard muscles.

The last few stragglers line up. Vicky sets her feet shoulder width apart. The troops copy her. This is going well so far. There's so much potential here.

This isn't personal anymore; it's business.

She singles out a rookie with her riding crop. The rest turn on him. Punches and kicks fly across the field – as do a few unlucky fighters.

Vicky takes in the scene, keeping her peepers peeled both for losers and for winners. It's all part of their training. One of these shadowy soldiers will have the honour of finding this fabled belt, travelling back in time and ensuring the _twerp_ can never foil her plans again.

It's a brilliant plan, the best she's ever concocted.

Even so, there's so much that could go wrong. She could create a world ruled by somebody other than her. She could even create a world in which she was never born. She could be messing with the timeline, damaging it beyond repair, just as Tootie damaged Sanjay.

Vicky no longer cares. Her heart shrivelled up when her NFT was torn from her, a hot sticky lump of rage and hatred taking its place. It's a risk she has to take.

For the planet.

For herself.

For her lost princess.

 **THE END**


End file.
